Yes, it made sense. Especially since the thief had worn gloves or whatever – suspicious to begin with, because as Mum had pointed out, what kind of petty thief thinks of things like wearing gloves? But on the other hand, what kind of maniac would actually kill someone just to get hold of something like that? Only characters in books like The Da Vinci Code did stuff like that, and that was for a secret that might majorly threaten institutions like the Church. But who would be threatened by a secret about the real King Arthur? Nobody stood to lose anything, did they?
Besides, Raymond would not just have left it on the hard drive of his computer. He'd have made a copy, on CD or USB key or whatever, because one thing I know for sure is you never leave things just on your computer, unless you really enjoy losing all your data. Mum always backs up everything, with USB and hard copy. And Raymond was a writer. Writers have to be ultra-careful about not losing files. So there must be another copy of it somewhere. Unless of course the thief had taken that too. Boron had said something about CDs being taken as well. I'd thought he meant music but maybe they were data CDs.
I had a scout around anyway, just in case, but the only CDs I saw were music ones. No USB keys. Either he didn't use them or the thief – or the police – had taken them away. I was trying to decide whether I should risk trying to ring Boron and asking him how Raymond had copied his computer files – and what he'd say if I asked – when there was a thunderous knock on the front door. I was out of the study in a flash, closing the door behind me, and was dawdling nonchalantly down the corridor just as Oscar Dulac came out of the library and headed to the front door. He looked distracted and didn't even glance at me as he hurried to open the door. But I stopped dead just as he did when we saw who was standing there.
It was the police. Two of them, a big burly one and a little skinny one. The big one said, in a voice to match his size, 'Monsieur Dulac? Monsieur Oscar Dulac?'
Oscar nodded, apparently dumbstruck.
'May we come in?'
Oscar nodded and stepped to one side so they could come in. The skinny policeman said, in a precise, clear voice, 'We are following a new line of inquiry in the matter of your uncle's murder, Monsieur Dulac. Could we speak in private?'
Oscar followed the policeman's gaze to me, still standing there like an idiot, staring. He said, tiredly, 'Fleur, would you mind –'
'Of course not,' I said, and fled, not before I saw him ushering them into Raymond's study. But oh, how desperately I wanted to hear what they were saying! After a moment, I couldn't bear it any longer, I just had to find out. So I crept back down the corridor again to the study, and put my ear to the door.
You could hear quite clearly, at least the skinny policeman, because he had the kind of voice that carried well. The big guy was just a rumble and Oscar seemed not to be talking much at all. Concentrating hard, I managed to get the gist of what was being said. And it was chilling.
The police had just found out that in the weeks before his death, Raymond had been in touch with a private investigator in the town of Vezelay. The police did not know why, because all the files relating to his case had been stolen out of the PI's office. The man had not reported the theft because he was dead – apparently from a heart attack in his office last night, but the police now suspected foul play. They wanted to know whether Oscar knew that Raymond had consulted a PI, and why.
I heard Oscar protesting then, his voice rising, that he had no idea, Raymond had never mentioned such a thing, and why hadn't the police spoken to the PI before? They said they had not known, that the man had not told them, and that they suspected he had kept quiet for reasons of his own. They didn't say what reasons, but I had read and seen enough crime fiction to have a pretty good idea. Blackmail, I thought, with a kind of cold thrill.
I wondered how the police had found out Raymond had hired the PI in the first place – surely the murderer would have taken away any evidence that might point to them eventually – but the police didn't say anything about it, and Oscar didn't ask. I listened for a bit longer but there was nothing much to hear, just them saying Oscar would keep them informed if he thought of anything, wouldn't he, and Oscar saying, yes, of course. At this point I thought it a good idea to make tracks and not get caught listening in at doors to stuff that wasn't supposed to be my business at all.
So I went off to the kitchen and poured myself an apple juice, which I drank standing by the window looking out over the park. There was someone working there in the vegetable garden and he saw me and gave me a cheery wave. It must be Marie Clary's husband, the gardener, I thought, but I couldn't remember his name. My brain was whirling. Should I tell the police what I had found out? In my heart, I was sure those things were connected – whatever Raymond had discovered that would prove the existence of King Arthur, what he had gone to the PI for, and the supposed burglary that had led to his death, and then the death of the PI. How it was all connected I didn't know yet. But I was sure it was, somehow.
I should go to the police. I should tell them. Two people had been murdered already, and any information was precious. But hang on – if I went to the police and started talking about King Arthur's last resting place or whatever, they'd think I was mad. They'd think it was all rubbish. I mean, first of all I didn't have any hard evidence, just that dream Raymond had written down, and my instinct. What's more, they would never believe people would kill for stuff like that. I wasn't sure I believed it either. You'd have to be a mad weirdo to think a secret like that was worth two deaths. But then I'd seen quite a few mad weirdos floating through Mum's bookshop at times, people who were totally convinced they knew the secret of the universe and it was all to do with pyramids or ancient secrets or earth magic or whatever. They also often thought there was a conspiracy stopping them from revealing this amazing secret. They were harmless except they could bore you to death with their theories. But there might be a real psycho who was obsessed by King Arthur and he might do anything to get his hands on a real genuine discovery that could make him a hero. Or else it could be about greed. What you could get from a secret like that. That's where someone like Wayne Morgan came in. I didn't think he was a believer in ancient magic and sacred secrets and stuff, you could tell, but he'd be someone with an eye on the main chance. Or – my mind whirled again – maybe it was because he came from Glastonbury, which just lived off the idea it was the site for the 'real Avalon' and Morgan had lots of businesses there bringing in heaps of money, so if attention shifted to Avallon and France then overnight his businesses might be in trouble. Still, that was silly. He could just shift his stuff here. After all, he had already shown interest in buying the house, maybe he saw the writing on the wall about Arthurian stuff, that if Raymond had really found something amazing, then the attention would all shift here. But if he knew that then, that must mean he knew quite a bit. Maybe he already had all of Raymond's information, because he had stolen it all already, or paid someone to do it.
Gah. Why do I keep thinking the bad guy is Morgan? Cos he's a phony sleaze who's sucking up to Mum. But it could be lots of people. Oscar Dulac? Family was often the first to be suspected, after all. Nicolas Boron? Someone in the village? Christine Foy? The Clarys? Anyone, really. Someone who knew what Raymond had been investigating. Then there was the murder of the PI. The person who did that must have done it during the night. Who had been in Vezelay that night? I suddenly remembered hearing that news item on the radio this morning, about the man found dead in his office. He had made a date with a murderer and had paid very dearly for his greed.
I shivered. Suddenly, lovely, sunny Bellerive felt haunted by the spectre of violent death and shadowed by evil and fear. I almost made up my mind then to go to the police with what I suspected. But I didn't end up going because, well, because I was sure they wouldn't take me seriously, and would tell me to go away, stop interfering in police business and coming up with crackpot theories.
Reprise
That night at dinner – a simple but yummy affair whi
zzed up by Mum, featuring pasta with a rich tomato, olive, garlic, herb and chilli sauce – nobody spoke about the policemen's visit, or the murder of the Vezelay private investigator, or the new light this might shed on Raymond's death. It was as if we'd all taken a vow of silence on such things. Instead, Mum and Morgan (whom Oscar had invited to stay overnight) talked about books, then Christine asked us about Australia. She also talked a bit about how she'd followed a boyfriend from Ireland to France, how after they'd broken up she'd worked in Paris for several years in an office, then one day visited this region and decided it was her dream place, where she wanted to settle. That got everyone talking about dream places, and Morgan went on and on about Glastonbury and how there was this amazing spiritual energy there, and how he felt similar vibes here, and couldn't wait to explore more of the countryside to get a great sense of the place. Christine Foy said then that he should visit the little town she lived in, a place called Quarré-les-Tombes, on the other side of Avallon. 'The reason for the funny name – it means Tomb Quarry – is that there used to be a quarry there, where they got stone to make sarcophagi,' she said. 'Those are ancient stone coffins, you know,' she explained, seeing my puzzled look. 'In the fifth and sixth centuries, there was a real industry there. You can still see some of the sarcophagi they made – they're in rows outside the church, in the middle of the marketplace.'
'Gross,' I said, but she laughed. 'Oh, there's no-one in them. They never got around to using those particular ones.' She smiled at Oscar. 'That was where we met, wasn't it, darling? Those stone coffins brought us luck.'
'What? Oh yes, of course.' Oscar hadn't been talking much, and he hadn't eaten much either, in fact he didn't look all that well. But now he made an effort. 'I don't often go to Quarré. But that day Raymond had asked me to go and measure up one of the sarcophagi – information for one of his books. And Christine was there.' He looked at her with what was meant to be a fond smile. 'It was my lucky day.'
'It was only my second week living there. I was fascinated by those things,' said Christine, with a little smile. 'I'm almost as blasé as the real locals now.'
'I'd almost given up on ever meeting the right woman,' said Oscar, in a jolly voice that sounded a bit forced. 'I certainly never thought I'd meet her in a place like that!'
'That's fate,' said Christine. 'That's the way it works.'
'Raymond was so glad,' said Oscar. 'He really liked you.'
'If you say so, darling. I'm not sure I agree.'
He frowned. 'Christine, you're wrong. I'm sure he liked you.'
'Never mind, dear,' said Christine, in a patient sort of voice, as if she was used to him saying it. 'He only met me a few times. We hardly knew each other.'
'Nevertheless,' said Oscar stubbornly.
There was an awkward little silence, broken by Morgan saying, 'Your town sounds wonderful, Christine. We must go there sometime. Perhaps you can show it to us?'
'Of course. Happy to. Anytime.'
'What about tomorrow?'
Christine looked at Oscar. He said, 'Why not?' but I noticed his glance at Morgan wasn't all that friendly. Maybe he suspected the Englishman of trying to make a move on his fiancée. It wouldn't exactly be a surprise.
'Perhaps we could all go, said Mum brightly. 'I'm sure we'd all be interested. Eh, Fleur?'
'Sorry. I can't. I've got something else on.'
Mum frowned. 'What?'
'I–I arranged to go for a picnic. A swim.'
'With that boy you met?'
I bit my lip. I didn't want to discuss this in front of the others. Why can't parents be more discreet? 'Yes. With Remy.' I couldn't help my voice sounding snappy, though it's the wrong sort of tack to take with Mum. She's a gentle sort of person except when she thinks you're being rude, and then she gets really fired up.
She looked at me, and I thought she was about to tell me it was too bad, I couldn't go. Then to my huge relief, Christine Foy said, 'It's not really something young people would be interested in anyway, Anne. Besides, I don't think we can all fit in my little car.'
'Okay, then,' said Mum, a little reluctantly, and I flashed Christine a look of gratitude. 'But be careful, won't you?'
'Sure,' I said hastily. 'I'll be careful. I promise.'
The talk thankfully moved on from there without Mum giving me the third degree about what exactly we had planned and what Remy was like and all that sort of stuff. Not long after that I managed to get away from the table, pleading tiredness, and went up to bed, leaving them all to their chat and their coffee. Good on you, Christine, I thought as I went upstairs and got ready for bed, you saved my life. You really did! And thinking of tomorrow, rather than the events of the day, I fell asleep and straight into the dream . ..
I'm running. Running very fast. Running for my life. The breath is whistling in my throat, my heart's pounding, my feet are on fire.
Someone's after me. I can't see who it is, but I can hear them. I daren't waste time by turning around. Whoever it is, I know they mean me harm. I know that just as I know I must try to get away. I'm running from them, but running from something else too – something I've seen, some terrible, terrible thing...
It's dark in here. Not dark dark – not night, that is – but dimly lit. The dim green-gold light of a forest in full leaf. Big trees. Small trees. Bushes. Vines. Stones on the path. Mossy patches. Slippery dead leaves. Things to trip you up, to stumble, to fall, and then ...
I'm running again. Branches whip against me, stones fly out from under my feet. Sweat is pouring off me, cold sweat, making me feel clammy, shivering in the midst of my running. My scalp is pricked all over with cold needles of fear. For the faster I go, the more I can hear them coming, the more I can feel their presence: an evil presence that means me harm, that will hunt me down like a wild beast just like it did to ... My mind is blank but I know something terrible lies back there, something dreadful has happened, something that started me running.
Suddenly, something looms in front of me. A big grey pile of something. A large ruined house I think at first, and then, as I come closer, I see it's a tumbled pile of big grey rocks, threaded with yellow and green lichen. Boulders, really. Tall, rounded, with openings in among them. Like a terrified animal, I head for them. I can hide there. I can escape my hunter. I can.
I dive in among the grey rocks. I slip, recover, slide down into the dark shadows of the openings. Then I realise it's more than an opening. It's a sort of cave, lit by some weak light. I can just about see inside. There's a long row of stone coffins. In the one closest to me, there's a crumpled thing: a head, horribly twisted back. A white shirt, red and sticky with blood. And what's that I can smell? Burning, a distant roar of flames.
I scream. I cannot help it. And my hunter's heard. I know they've heard. I hear a soft laugh, the sharp crack of a twig. I know they're coming in. They're going to catch me here. I'm going to die. I am so afraid I cannot move. Can hardly breathe. I see a shadow slip in. can't see who it is, but it's human. There's something in its hands. A bow. A hunting bow. In the middle of the bowstring, poised to fly, an arrow, aimed right at my heart.
I jerked myself up, away, out of there. I sat up in bed, hot and cold as if I had a fever, my skin running with sweat, my white pyjama top sticking to me. For a horrible moment, I even thought it was blood. I felt sick. The nightmare beat in me like a vicious migraine. I was hardly aware of my surroundings, and it wasn't for quite a while that I realised it was already morning. Early morning: the sun was only just up.
I got up and drank a glass of water. I flung open the shutters and looked out over the park, which looked peaceful and normal. I told myself to breathe easily, carefully, to calm down. That I'd just had a dream. Okay, a bad dream. Okay, a reprise of that bad dream I'd had before, only changed a bit. But still just a dream. It was no wonder I was having dreams like that, given the things that had happened, given everything I'd been thinking about. Yes, I told myself firmly. It was all explainable. Those extra bits, that was the s
tuff Christine was talking about last night, about those sarcophagi, mixed up with what I'd heard about Remy's family, what had happened to them. I must not tell Mum about it, or she'd think I was trauma-tised or something. She'd worry. She might even stop me from going off on my own. No. No way. I wouldn't say anything to her. It was just a dream.
I had a shower, got dressed, and felt better. The sun was up properly by now and things looked and felt a lot different. More normal. I went downstairs for breakfast and found Mum was up already, looking bright and cheerful. She told me how she and Christine and Wayne had stayed up half the night talking about all sorts of things, and how nice they both were. But Oscar had gone up to bed not long after me. 'He's taking it all very hard, poor man,' she added, buttering a slice of toast, 'but then I suppose that's not surprising, given the circumstances.' She shot me a sharp look. 'What about you, Fleur? Are you okay?'
For a startled moment I thought she'd somehow sussed what had happened to me last night. I stammered, 'I'm fine. I really am.'
'If you're sure,' said my mother. 'You'd tell me if it was all too much for you, wouldn't you, darling?'
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and she continued. 'You know, Wayne and I had a quick look through Raymond's notebooks yesterday. It was such an odd experience, like any moment he might walk in through the door and ask us what we were doing.'
Cupid's Arrow Page 11
